Reality Crashing In
by Countryole
Summary: "And Tony wonders for a split second – when he's looking at her, really looking – if this is just another moment they'll have to pretend never happened. It's something that gets harder to do every day."


**Part One**

Very special agent Anthony DiNozzo had not planned on going swimming today, but the team's only suspect in their current investigation into the murder of a female petty officer has decided otherwise. And by swimming, he meant tackling the six foot tall, two feet wide, dishonorably discharged marine into the not so deep depths of the Lincoln Memorial reflecting pool. Wrestling with the man was more like wrestling with an angry alligator, and it's in the stage of death roll when the chaotic water brawl comes to a stop. Tony watches Ziva appear behind the thrashing marine, like a ninja whose stealth mode allows her to move at the speed of light.

With one clear concise blow to the back of the head with the butt of her SIG, the man crumples into a heap on top of Tony, who then finds himself submerged underwater yet again.

Tony manages to escape death by drowning, clawing his way out from underneath the dead weight of the incapacitated man, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him for good measure while he's at it, just in case he somehow manages to wake up before he and his partner can drag him to dry land. Ziva helps him do just that, where McGee and Gibbs now sit waiting, having shown up after all the fun had been had. They take the suspect into their ever capable hands, carrying him with some level of difficulty towards the Charger while Tony and Ziva both stand, still ankle deep in reflecting pool water, trying to catch their breaths.

He's getting too old for this, tube socks or not, and he can feel it like a cold chill racing through his bones, even though it's the prime of summer. He turns to Ziva, still sucking air, and tries to come up with a thank you for having his back that won't sound something like a wheezing alcoholic with emphysema. She doesn't have her eyes on him though, still intently following Gibbs' and McGee's trail back to the car, hair a complete mess and twisted around her neck, her clothes sticking to her skin. She seems tired too, more so than usual and Tony briefly entertains the idea of an early retirement as he watches her pull her hair back, finally glancing sideways at him.

That's when he sees it.

The scar on her neck. He freezes up and his stomach coils into knots, making him feel sick. Usually he can brush off the feeling and disregard the ugly memories it calls to the forefront of his thoughts, but the way the sun hits the curve of her neck just right, and the dark, wet color of her hair makes it nearly impossible to overlook the line that runs from her jaw to the edge of her collar bone. Thirty seconds later, when she asks him if he's ok and returns the strange look on his face with a strange look of her own, is when he remembers he can't not breathe.

So he smiles, nods, and tells her everything is fine. And when she smiles back, one of the first genuine smiles Ziva's given him since the accident three months ago, it almost makes it better.

But it's not.

* * *

><p>Every night, for the last three months, Tony has relived the nightmare that almost became reality.<p>

It starts out the same every time. The last thing that goes through his mind is thinking he can't stop it. He can't _stop_ it.

And then he wakes up.

The dark of his room suffocates him and he immediately sits up and flips on the lamp that sits on his bedside table, stripping out of the shirt that sticks to him because of the sweat. Tony runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit, and tries to slow down his breathing. A sense of panic still hangs over him and he can smell the fear on his own skin, feel it in the way it clings to him and causes his chest to tighten with every breath he takes. For a split second the simple act of exhaling becomes a process beyond egregious and he has to fight the anxiety from smothering him. The route back to stability has him closing his eyes in an attempt to make the lingering images in his head go away, but it's a temporary solution to a problem spanning the better part of the past six years.

There are nights where he can lull himself back into an agitated sleep, but on nights like this, when the memories seem more lucid, more real, he doesn't even try.

Tony hates it, this weakness, this haunted feeling, but sometimes he hates himself more. But living everyday with the blame, asking himself why, or what he could have done, doesn't answer any of his questions.

Sometimes he wonders if it ever will.

* * *

><p>DiNozzo forgets how hard it is to ignore someone who's staring, but he really can't blame Ziva. The size of the circles under his eyes are probably ground enough to believe he hasn't slept for weeks, so he'd probably stare too. But instead he stares at his computer screen, trying to pretend the unwavering gaze of the woman seated across the aisle is directed anywhere but at him. McGee has gracefully escaped being involved in the awkwardness currently flooding the squad room by accompanying the boss on a coffee run, something Tony wishes he would have done as well, half for the caffeine, half to escape the scrutiny of the ninja who could probably read his thoughts.<p>

But taking no notice of Ziva David is easier said than done. Especially because she's wearing his favorite shirt, the blue one that rides up the small of her back, and she's let her hair curl and twist today, the way he likes it, instead of straightening it like she usually does. He swears she's deliberately trying to get under his skin, because when he finally does sneak a glance at her, she's calm and poised and perfectly composed. And Tony thinks it's unfair she can just do that, be perfectly at ease when clearly something is bothering her, or else she wouldn't have remained so quiet the past hour she's spent staring at him instead of doing something productive.

Tony sits back in his chair, stretching his arms out and listening to the crack of his shoulders as they pop from sitting in one position for too long. Ziva continues to watch, a deceivingly demure half smile stealing its way across her lips as she mirrors his movements in a similar manner, crossing her arms across her chest, her hair shifting around her shoulders, strands falling across her neck.

"Can I help you, Zee-vah?" It's not so much a question as a challenge for her to speak her mind, instead of keeping her thoughts bottled up and to herself like she so often does. At the hint of a dare in his words, her eyes smolder just enough to confirm that something's been aggravating her, and even though he thinks he might have an idea as to why, Tony is still curious to see if she'll provide him with a concrete answer.

"You've been acting… strangely." She says after a brief moment of silence, struggling to find the just right words to say. "You've been acting strangely for a while now."

"Is that so?" Tony shifts uncomfortably in his seat, feigning indifference, but the raise of her eyebrows and the way her lips press together to form a thin line of incredulity let him know that she knows better. And there's the manner in which the words rolled off her tongue with a noticeable weight of worth all their own, a not so subtle suggestion that his strangeness has been around for a while, something he can't deny. There's also a sadness in her eyes, smoky and hazy on the edges of the smoldering that hadn't been there moments before, and it brings back to mind the guilt that follows him around like a shadow, always there, regardless of the sun.

Ziva stands up and moves to sit on the side of his desk, her palms balanced on the flat surface to give herself support. Tony draws himself up straight in his chair, that itchy, nervous feeling becoming that much worse with her being in close quarters, and multiplied by the silence. If McGee or Gibbs had been there this wouldn't be happening, with her and him sitting there, acting like boundaries and impossibilities and rule number 12 didn't exist. Her knees nearly brush his, and he has to look up to hold her gaze, trying to focus when the smell of her shampoo lingers in the air around them, to watch her eyes instead of the curve of her neck.

And Tony wonders for a split second – when he's looking at her, _really_ looking – if this is just another moment they'll have to pretend never happened.

It's something that gets harder to do every day.

"You know I'm here, right?" Ziva asks, her voice quiet, and yet even though she is right there, incredibly alive and real, she seems so far away. There are so many things Tony wants to say right then and sitting there with her he almost does.

"I know."

But then he doesn't. Instead he attempts to forgo telling her what he really thinks for something safer, failing miserably by the undeniable hints of pain laced through the two simple words that mean so much more. The truth, how he really feels, is probably dancing across his green eyes like a white flag being waved in defeat, and he knows she sees it because something suddenly changes. The air seems to grow heavy, laden with everything left unsaid in the space between them, and she's not smiling anymore, but just watching, her eyes dark with something he can't name and her body completely still.

She moves though, finally breaking the lull, and he takes a breath, dizzy and listening to the pounding in his head while she stands. She tucks the loose strands of her curls behind her ears and borders on biting her lip, and just when Tony thinks she's going to go off without saying anything else, she catches herself, stops, and looks at him again.

"Then stop acting like I'm not."

And then without saying another word she goes back to her desk, grabs her purse, and he has to watch her walk away again, probably for the thousandth time.

* * *

><p>That night Tony doesn't sleep at all. Partly because it's raining, and rain tends to bring to mind all the bad memories, but mostly because he's tried to call Ziva three times, but never actually gotten as far as finding her name in the contacts list. Or dialing the number he knows by heart.<p>

The phone stares at him from his coffee table, mocking him with the way it sits there on the glass, it's all too inviting touch screen shimmering at him like a beacon in his sea of misery, a reminder that he's more of a coward than he previously would have thought. He's not sure what's stopping him. However, he does know there are two fears, one of her actually answering the phone, the other being faced by a voicemail recording, of which neither situation he's actually prepared for.

And he's not sure what to say, which is shocking in itself, because usually he has something to say every waking hour of the day to anyone no matter what the circumstances might be. Except this is Ziva, and Ziva is different, and he still can't quite wrap his head around the way she had acted at the Navy Yard, what she had said earlier, not matter how many times he tries to break it down.

Yes, he knows she was there for him, that she _is _there for him. But sometimes, especially on occasions like this, he begins to doubt if he knows what he's done with himself.

* * *

><p>When Lieutenant Olsson refuses to crack after two days under the almighty hammer that is Gibbs in interrogation, the boss sends his three musketeers on a scavenger hunt instead. The hope is that canvasing the local hotels, including the one in which their deceased petty officer met her fate, will bring to light the Lieutenant's innocence as a simple man caught at the wrong place, wrong time during his hotel hopping affair with a married woman. Or that he's an axe wielding sociopath with anger management issues. At this point it's anybody's ball game, but Tony would wager the latter to be the winning conviction.<p>

However, three hotels and severely past lunchtime later, they are still without any significant proof, and Tony is convinced that he is slowly dying from starvation.

"What do you think Vance would do if we got a room, and ordered room service?" Tony muses aloud as he and Tim follow Ziva into the fourth hotel of the day, the ever fancy St. Regis located in one of D.C.'s business districts. It was also the fourth mark against the dead petty officer and her accomplice, who seemed to have a taste for the high life, the previous three rendezvous points also falling under the category of five star, high priced hotels regular people only dream about.

Rather than answer Tim merely shakes his head at his partner, a gesture not quite on the level of disdain, but close. Tony scowls in turn, not so much because he was offended, but more that Tim was refusing (as he had done all day) to aid Tony in deflecting any potential conversation with the fire tempered and volatile ninja accompanying them. As Ziva begins her conversation with the man at the front desk, the two men come to a stop. Tony busies himself with watching the scene before him unfold, trying to imagine Ziva's facial expression or what she might have been saying to convince the young clerk that he should give her any information he might have on their victim. And its times like these where Tony envies her ability to do that, to put on whatever charade might best suit her, because he actually gets to sit back and watch from a relatively safe distance.

"Rebekah enjoyed spending time at the bar with her Mojitos when she was here," Ziva glides back to her partners holding up a room card, adorning a look that could be classified as smug. "The clerk said there was a man with her, but that he never saw his face."

"So check the bar, check the room." McGee quips, turning heel and talking over his shoulder without blinking. "I've got the bar."

Tony's facial expression might have resembled someone who had seen a ghost, except in reality he's seeing himself, dying a slow painful death at the hands of a thousand paper clips instead. He almost flinches when Ziva steps toward him and he sees his life flash before his eyes, but instead of being met by a great white light, he feels her hand around his instead tugging him the direction of the elevators. He argues with himself whether to be relieved and mortified given the nature of countless other elevator rides they've taken before. It takes every ounce of maturity he has left not to call after Tim at the top of his lungs and insist foul play.

"So we'll check the room." Ziva's announcement comes severely postponed and she lets go of his hand only to hit the up button once they reached the elevator doors.

"I don't think this is a good idea."

"Checking the room?"

"No. Being stuck in an elevator. With you."

The statement was meant in jest, but as soon as the words leave Tony's mouth he regrets them. He's saved by the proverbial bell though; the elevator's arrival is heralded by the echo of the telltale ding. At first neither one of them move, because she's staring at him in that way that makes him start to say the things he always wants to say, but never can.

Except the sound of someone clearing their throat behind them ruins the potential unveiling of feelings, causing both NCIS agents to pitch forward in a fit of awkward surprise that has Tony pulling at his collar for the entire elevator ride, and Ziva grinding her teeth (because he swears he can hear it), all while an elderly looking business man stands between them for five floors.

Tony is pretty certain that gentleman is the only thing that keeps Ziva from trying to drop him down the elevator shaft and turning him into a victim of her sometimes violent ex-assassin tendencies. She doesn't try though, even after the old man makes his departure. The rest of the elevator ride is spent in a gut churning, awkward silence that takes his Ziva- induced anxiety issues to a whole new level. So when the doors finally open on the floor of the petty officer's room, Tony plans on making a mad dash for the slightly less claustrophobic hallway.

And he would have been successful, if it weren't for the appearance of a petite arm blocking his way.

"Stop it." The two words aren't loud, but the force behind them hems Tony up against the back wall of the elevator without her even having to lay a finger on him. Ziva's eyes are fierce, angry, and his mouth goes dry with a lack of words to say and his head blank of any coherent thought.

"Stop what?" If squeaking was spineless by the standards of great men, he's sure he just claimed the title.

"Stop _this_." There's a threat in the hiss of her words as she steps toward him, her hands waving in a severely vexed motion and her voice climbing an octave in a way that makes Tony wish he had about ten more feet between them. "Stop dodging and avoiding and dancing around the problem. I swear to God, Anthony, I'll break your legs if you even try."

It takes every ounce of effort and decency he has left to not look away from her then, because she's finally called his bluff and this time there's nowhere left to run and no other way to turn the tables back in his favor. For the first time in a long time he's completely lost control of the status quo. Her words remain over him and burn themselves into reality, demanding to be heard even by his own infamously blissful ignorance. And the way she had said his name hangs in the air between them, how she's never said it like _that, _tangible and alive in how he could still hear it seconds after.

The elevator doors finally start to close and Ziva instinctively reaches out and hits the emergency stop button once they're shut, a movement in itself that sends his brain into overdrive as the recollections of the thousands of times he's seen her do the very same thing come flooding back, the levees thoroughly broken. The only sound that remains in the hush that follows is the quiet clamor of their breathing and the thunderous resonance of his heart racing inside his head at a pace that borders on fatal.

"We can't do this." He finally manages to grind the words out from behind a jaw locked with determination and panic. "Not now."

Although against what, himself refusing to say what he can't or from what she will, he's not really sure. Tony prepares to be barraged by the thousands of accusations she's probably saved up over the years for an occasion just like this, but just when he thinks he'll have to whether the worst of the storm that is Ziva David's temper, it dies inexplicably, the flame of a candlelight suddenly killed. She sighs, _sighs_. The defeated and sorrowful sound that catches Tony off guard in its uncharacteristic frailty, so unlike her, that all he can do while she stares at him, overwhelmed, is stare back senselessly in return.

She gives up.

"Then perhaps we never will." Ziva's eyes are glassy, distant, and she's no longer looking at him, but somewhere else where he can't follow. "I'll go check the room. You should go make sure Tim hasn't fallen into someone's fish bowl."

"Ziva-"

"Don't."

She smothers him into silence with that one word, filled with a disappointment so callous that it falls between them like a rampart crumbling, crushing Tony beneath the weight. Ziva hits the emergency stop button again and the doors unseal themselves. She forces herself out before they're even half way open, and he watches it in slow motion, knowing he could stop this entire scene and change the ending that he's written if he'd only try. That he could stop her.

Except he doesn't. And the doors start to close. And she's gone. Again.

This is reality crashing in.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Special thanks to my betas, the wonderful Littlesammy and Zaedah! Stay tuned for part 2.


End file.
